


Fly Me to The Moon

by RachelClark



Series: Incredible Tales of Scientific Wonder [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Far Beyond the Stars, Character(s) of Color, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Meta, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelClark/pseuds/RachelClark
Summary: Hampton, Virginia, 1959. Michael Burnham, an African American research mathematician at NASA, discusses the new issue ofIncredible Tales of Scientific Wonderwith renowned astrophysicist Philippa Georgiou. Elsewhere, Flight Navigation Engineer Paul Stamets makes a connection with a singing mechanic.An AU story set in the world of the DS9 episodeFar Beyond the Stars, wherein the crew of the USS Discovery are working for the NASA Space Task Group in the 1950s. Heavily inspired by the brilliant filmHidden Figures.





	Fly Me to The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> The events in this story take place shortly before those of the '1950s AU' portion of the Deep Space Nine episode _Far Beyond the Stars_ , although I think you can enjoy this story without being familiar with DS9.

For the first time since being reassigned to the Flight Research Group, Michael Burnham takes a lunch break. 

Usually, she eats her sandwiches at her desk. Where else would she go? There’s no cafeteria for coloreds on the East Campus. 

Today though… today the new issue of _Incredible Tales of Scientific Wonder_ , featuring the final part of the latest Benny Russell serial, had arrived in the morning mail. Last month’s installment had ended on a cliff-hanger, with heroic starship captain Jim Kirk trapped in 1930s New York, facing a heart-breaking choice between protecting the timeline and saving the life of the woman he loved…

Michael had first become enthralled with Mr. Russell’s stories in 1941, when her father had sent a letter home from Honolulu appended with a hand-written vignette penned by his new comrade.

_‘Here on the USS Defiance, we all are thanking the Lord for our new cook,’_ George Burnham had told his nine-year-old daughter in his letter. _‘Benny Russell’s father was a chef down in New Orleans, and now that Benny's here with us we are eating better than most officers.’_

 _‘I myself am grateful for Benny’s presence for another reason; I observed that he had a habit of scribbling in an old journal for hours after lights out each night. When I asked him what he was writing, he told me it was a Space Opera. He began to explain the genre, but I cut him off, informing him that I considered myself a fan of Mr. Asimov and Mr. E. E Smith's work.’_

_‘When I revealed to him that I’d been a physics teacher before the war, he asked me if I could critique his work from a scientific standpoint. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the best thing I’ve read since_ Brave New World! _I told him then and there that he should send it to_ Marvel _or_ Weird Tales _for publication, ‘and’, I said, ‘I’ve got a little girl back home in Virginia, smart as the devil, and when she grows up she’s gonna walk on the moon’. I told him it would be a privilege if I could transcribe a part of one of his stories for you,’_

From then until the end of the war, the stories came with every letter. When Michael’s father was killed at Iwo Jima, Mr. Russell had been the one to write to his family with a full account of how he’d given his life to save Captain Grayson. 

After that, the letters kept coming, until they gave way to hot off the press copies of _Astounding Science Fiction_ and _Incredible Tales_.

On her way to work today, sat at the back of the bus with Joann drowsing against her shoulder, Michael had raced through the first few pages of _The City on the Edge of Forever_. Now she simply can’t wait until she gets home this evening to find out what happens next. So at a quarter past midday, she slips out of the fire exit at on the second floor. She props the door open behind her with the heel of her shoe, spreads her coat over the cool metal grill of the fire escape, and settles down to read.

The June sunshine is warm on her face, and as she opens the magazine in her lap and removes her deviled egg sandwich from its brown paper wrapping she lets out a sigh of satisfaction. Engrossed in the story, she fails to notice the steady clip-clop of high heeled shoes against the hallway’s thin carpet until it is too late.

“Well hello,” says a lightly accented female voice. “Did they finally put a sign up to make this spot the official break-room for Langley’s odd-balls? I had thought it was my secret!”

Michael looks up, startled, to see a wiry East Asian woman in her early forties standing over her. 

She is wearing a lab coat over a plum silk blouse tucked into high waisted grey slacks. Slacks, of course, are against the dress code for women at Langley, but Michael supposes that like most rules, the dress code doesn’t apply to Dr. Philippa Georgiou.

Not that Michael is the least bit resentful; on the contrary, she has always been somewhat in awe of Georgiou. As a young graduate physicist at Columbia, Georgiou had become a refugee when the Japanese occupied her native Malaya in ’41. Her parents and siblings had been killed in ’42. The grief of all that would have broken a lot of people. Georgiou had completed her Ph.D. in ’43 and joined the Manhattan project in ’44. Now seconded to the Space Task Group from Columbia, she is considered something of a legend.

Michael struggles to get up as quickly as she can, the metal grill biting into the balls of her feet through her thin stockings. “My apologies, ma’am,” she says respectfully, “I didn’t mean to trespass on anybody’s space. I was just…”

“… Looking for a peaceful corner in which to enjoy your break? Then we’re here for the same reason, and it is nothing to be sorry for. I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new?”

“I was reassigned here in March, ma’am, from the West Area Computing Group.”

Georgiou bends to pick up the shoe Michael had left propping the door open, tucking a corner of the hallway carpet over to replace it. As she is about to stand, she notices Michael’s magazine, face down on top of her coat, and smiles.

“You have good taste in literature,” she says. She picks the magazine up, carefully marking Michael’s place with her index finger, and rises smoothly to her feet. Every movement she makes has a grace about it that makes Michael feel like a gawky nerd in comparison. “I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve read _Assignment in Paris_ ,” she continues. “Nobody writes strong women quite so well as Hunter and Eaton, do they?”

Michael is fond of _Assignment in Paris_ \- a war story in which a female French resistance operative infiltrates a top-secret Nazi science facility and uncovers a number of strange and incredible experiments - but still, there’s only one _Incredible Tales_ writer whose work really makes Michael’s heart soar.

“Benny Russel’s my favorite,” she finds herself confiding in the professor. “He was my inspiration for joining the Space Programme.”

“Ah, yes,” says Georgiou, “the adventures of Captain Kirk, boldly going where no man has gone before.” Her tone is almost mocking.

“You don’t like stories about outer space?” Michael asks in disbelief.

“They’re all the same to me,” Georgiou tells her. “Flash Gordon, John Carter of Mars, Captain Kirk…”

“But you design the rockets that are going to take us there!” Michael protests. “How can you not enjoy reading about what it’ll be like…”

“As a rocket scientist, I can tell you it won’t be much like this,” Georgiou tells her, opening the magazine on a page that shows an illustration of the Starship Enterprise. “It makes me want to meet your Mr. Russel’s illustrator and teach him a thing or two about astronautics, not to mention warfare. What kind of engineer would decide to put the vessel’s bridge in such a vulnerable location?”

“Are you teasing me, ma'am?” Michael asks

“Only a little. It’s nice to meet someone who’s so sincere about our work. In there, caught up in the every-day business of beating the Russians, it’s all too easy to lose one’s idealism. Do you know who I am?”

“Of course, Ma’am… I mean, Dr. Georgiou. I’m Michael Burnham,” Michael responds.

She accepts the hand Georgiou offers her. The older woman’s palm is calloused, yet smaller and more delicate than Michael expects it to be. She holds it reverently – and, perhaps, for a moment longer than is appropriate – but still, Georgiou returns her grip, and Michael finds herself flushing with pleasure at the unexpected intimacy. The hold one another’s gaze for several seconds. Georgiou’s eyes are searching at first, and then soft, and finally they crinkle at the corners as she smiles and steps back, offering Michael her magazine.

Michael takes it and slides it back into her purse – she’s so self-conscious now with Georgiou here it would be impossible to go back to her reading.

Georgiou leans back against the wall beside the door and takes out a box of matches and a packet of Mary Longs. “What is it you do here at Langley, Michael?” she asks.

“I’m assigned to the Guidance and Control Division in Flight Research, Ma’am, under Mr. Stamets,” 

“Doing what?”

“Research Mathematics.”

“I’ve worked alongside Paul Stamets for two years,” Georgiou says, lips curling around her cigarette filter as she lights up. “That man goes through computers faster than most of us go through sticks of chalk. You must be talented, to have lasted three months.”

Modesty, Michael knows, would be the socially appropriate response.

“I have a better grasp of analytic geometry and differential equations than any engineer in the division,” she says, straightening her back and holding her head high. “Mr. Stamets may be a demanding supervisor, but he respects my intelligence. I believe it also helps that we are... understanding of one another’s eccentricities.”

“Good,” says Georgiou. “The Space Task Group needs more women. Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?”

The question is unexpected; Michael isn’t exactly sure how Georgiou means it, and for a moment she gazes around the space between the building and the back fence, as though she might spot a café or a little picnic spot that she’d somehow missed before.

Georgiou laughs, “In the cafeteria, I mean,” she explains. 

“You know I can’t go in there.”

“If you’re with me, it will be okay,” Georgiou assures her.

She could be right. There are many quiet supporters of desegregation at NASA - too quiet, perhaps - and even the stodgiest of the conservatives would probably think twice about starting anything with Georgiou.

“Are you trying to use me to make a point?” she asks.

Georgiou grins wolfishly, “We’re on our way to outer space, Michael,” she says. “Our colleagues need to start adjusting to how it’s going to be when we get there.”

Michael supposes she's right. She thinks about Benny Russell's Lieutenant Uhura, working with all those white boys on the Starship Enterprise and taking no shit from any of them. Somebody has to lay the groundwork for that, and being smarter and working harder than any man isn't enough. You've got to be assertive to make progress.

"You can pick me up outside Mr. Stamets office at twelve-thirty," she says. "Try to be on time, if you can. People deviating from their routines makes him cranky."

  
   
  
  


“Where the hell have you been?” Mr. Stamets snaps, setting a cup of coffee down a little too firmly on the desk in front of Michael. The hot liquid sloshes precariously around the rim but doesn’t quite spill over.

“Lunch break,” Michael replies reasonably.

Stamets raises an incredulous eyebrow. “You don’t take lunch breaks.” 

It isn’t that he doesn’t permit it, but in the three months she’s been assigned to him they have found that they are both creatures of habit. He’s at work at seven every morning; she arrives at five minutes to eight, as early as she can get to Langley on the bus from Newport. At nine she makes them both coffee; he likes his strong and black, while she takes hers with a splash of cold milk. He returns the favor after lunch. He’s the fussiest and most demanding man Michael has ever met, but he’s the only one she’s ever worked under who hasn’t expected her to do his share of the every-day office chores just because she’s his subordinate and a woman. Every now and then Stamets is obliged to eat with Mr. Lorca and the other unit heads, but mostly he and Michael eat their lunches at their desks in companionable silence. 

“It’s stuffy in here today,” Michael explains. “I needed some fresh air.”

Stamets scowls at her through his horn-rimmed glasses, clearly suspecting that there’s more to it than that. Spying the corner of the magazine peeking out of the top of her purse, he swipes it before she can stop him. 

_“Incredible Tales of Scientific Wonder,_ ” he reads dramatically, like a ringmaster announcing the next act at the circus. “You know, my niece Sylvia loves this schlock.”

“Your niece Sylvia who led her high school quiz bowl team to victory in the state championship last month?” Stamets had made his whole team listen to the final on the radio. “If you’re attempting to disparage the intellectual value of my reading material, Mr. Stamets, that’s hardly the best argument,” she tells him, snatching the magazine back. She stuffs it into her purse, firmly closing the zipper this time.

Stamets snorts but ultimately decides to drop the matter. He tosses a heavy-looking report onto her desk.

“Mr. Lorca wants this expanded to include an analysis of possible departures from the desired latitude and longitude passage position resulting from incremental changes in the azimuth angle at burnout,” he tells her. “I’ll need to get it back to him by tomorrow morning.”

“I take it that means Mr. Lorca was satisfied with the original projections?” Michael asks.

“If Mr. Lorca ever indicates he’s satisfied with anything I’ll be sure to let you know,” he replies. “Let’s get to it.”

They work late into the evening in order to finish the complete set of calculations and projections. Michael telephones Hugh at the garage to ask him if he’ll pick her up and drive her home since she’ll be missing the last bus again. By the time she and Stamets are done the facility is almost empty.

“I’ll walk you to the parking lot,” Stamets says gruffly as he buttons his shirt sleeves and pulls on his tweed suit jacket. Its dark out, but she’s hardly likely to come to any harm walking across the Langley parking lot, secure and well-lit as it is. Then again, he has to walk that way to fetch his bicycle anyhow. Michael has never seen him riding it, but she’s noticed him taking a pair of bright red trouser clips out of his briefcase on the rare days when he leaves work before her. She wonders if his bicycle itself is bright red to match; she hopes it is. Stamets is not a dull man, but he sure as hell dresses like one, and the idea that he might allow himself a little touch of flamboyance like that tickles her.

Hugh’s lime green 1948 Chevy Pickup isn’t hard to spot in any setting. In the almost-empty parking lot, with its doors open and the radio on, it positively screams.

The melody drifting through the balmy night is more sedate than most of the music Hugh likes, for which Michael is grateful; the good folks at Langley are by and large a broad-minded bunch, but she isn’t sure they’re ready to hear her friend howling along with Elvis and Little Richard the way he does when he’s fixing up hot rods at the garage.

As they near the car Michael recognizes the new Jimmie Rodgers tune. It’s a song about the agony of hidden love, but curiously Michael finds that some of the words make her think of Dr. Georgiou, of the furtive nature of their encounter on the fire escape. She can barely believe that Dr. Georgiou asked her to lunch, that she said yes, and that tomorrow the two of them will sit together in the cafeteria in front of everyone. 

Hugh is bent over under the hood, crooning to the music, the toes of his worn-out Chuck Taylor’s tapping along to the beat, his legs and, well, the rest him shaking. He’s stripped down to his plain black tank-top, leaving his crisp blue work shirt draped neatly over the top of the drivers-side door. Likely he’d gotten bored waiting for her and decided to start tinkering with the engine to pass the time.

“You know, when Joann’s brother comes to pick us up, he waits by the car door and holds it open for us like a gentleman,” Michael tells him loudly.

“If I acted like that you’d only be on at me for leading the girls on again,” Hugh replies, standing up straight and stretching his muscular arms above his head. He falters when he notices Mr. Stamet’s presence. “’Excuse me, sir,” he adds politely. “Didn’t see you there.”

“My supervisor, Mr. Stamets,” Michael says pointedly. “Sir, this is Mr. Culber, an old friend of my family’s.”

“Never seen a truck that old converted to 4WD before,” Stamets remarks, “You do that with a Napco kit?”

Michael finds herself staring at him as though he’s just grown an extra head. 

“You like cars, Mr. Stamets?” Hugh asks, oblivious to her reaction.

“Some,” Stamets admits, “I guess they were the gateway drug that got me into aeronautics.”

“Seems like you ain’t as much of a square as Michael here led me to believe.”

“Hugh! Don’t listen to him, Mr. Stamets, I never said any such thing!”

“I’m just flattered that she’s mentioned me at all,” Stamets tells Hugh. “She never told me she had… ah…”

“A friend?” Hugh suggests, smiling sweetly at Stamets.

Stamets nods. “A friend,” he agrees, blushing.

Michael considers the possibility that she has suddenly become invisible. She supposes it might make lunch with Ms. Georgiou tomorrow a little less nerve-wracking.

“Put your shirt on and take me home, Mr. Culber,” she tells Hugh, “before you get yourself in trouble.”

Truth be told, she’s more worried about him getting Stamets in trouble. Hugh can look after himself, but Stamets has a touching vulnerability about him, and Michael would never want to see him hurt. Not that Hugh ever set out to hurt anybody, but the Space Program was no place to get a reputation as a Lavender boy. Stamets is known for being a bit of an oddball as it is. It wouldn’t take much for rumors to get started.

It’s easier, somehow, for women. It isn’t fair, but that’s the way it is.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you to meet you, Mr. Stamets,” says Hugh, pulling on his shirt. “You ever find yourself in need of a good mechanic, I work at Landry's repair shop, downtown. Feel free to stop by anytime.”

The two men shake hands, and Mr. Stamets bids them both goodnight.

“You never told me he was cute,” Hugh mutters as he and Michael get into the car.

“I wasn’t even sure he was bent until just now.” 

“Just now?”

“Oh come on. I’d have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to have noticed the chemistry between you two. Be careful there, won’t you? As much as I admire Frank Kameny, I’m not sure Mr. Stamets could stand being a pariah.”

Hugh turns the radio up - Patsy Cline is singing _Walkin' After Midnight_. Michael winds down the window, letting the breeze blow back her hair, and attempts to give herself a reassuring look in the wing mirror as the cotton fields fly by. Hugh’s hand finds hers on the seat between them and squeezes it tightly. She smiles and sings along softly with the song’s last chorus.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've seen _Hidden Figures_ you have probably guessed that I've drawn heavily on accounts of Katherine Johnson's experiences as an African American woman working at NASA to create Michael's story here. I also drew inspiration from the life of Chinese physicist Chien-Shiung Wu in creating Philippa Georgiou's backstory.
> 
> The song Hugh is singing as Michael and Paul approach him in the car park is 'Secretly' by Jimmy Rodgers. 
> 
> A magazine cover shown in _Far Beyond the Stars_ suggests that the events of that episode happen in 1953. I wanted the events of this story to take place before those of that episode, but needed to keep the setting in the late '50s in order for it to take place in the context of key moments in both the Space Race and the Gay Rights Movement. So I'm using a bit of creative license to assume that _FBtS_ occurs in 1959 here.
> 
> I might write more in this 'verse if people like it (although I need to go give some love to my sadly neglected long fics right now). Thank you for reading <3 <3
> 
> P.S. I'm wayfarinjunketer on tumblr if you want to follow me there.


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